The caw of the raven or the birth of Europe, is about the Bratheres, which are nowadays commonly known as Yamnaya. The firelight danced across Ghei's weathered face, casting flickering shadows on the hides lining the yurt. Smoke curled towards the apex, carrying with it the scent of woodsmoke and roasting boar. Around me, the murmur of conversation rose and fell like the rhythm of the wind in the tall grass. It was a scene etched into my memory, a tableau of Bratheres life – a life I, Ghei, would soon be called upon to defend. "We came in peace," I began, my voice roughened by years spent herding cattle across the vast steppe. A hush fell over the assembled Bratheres – elders, mothers, young warriors, all eager to hear the tale I had carried within me for so long. "We brought with us the gifts of the horse, the wheel, the knowledge of the stars. We shared our bounty with the people who already lived here, those who scratched out a living from the hunt and the earth." Doubt, a serpent cold and unwelcome, flickered in my gut. The elders spoke of a harmonious integration, a blending of cultures. Yet, whispers lingered in the smoky corners of the yurt, tales passed down from generations before mine. Stories of a people displaced, a way of life extinguished. Were they mere shadows cast by a glorious past, or embers of a truth waiting to be rekindled? This doubt, a tiny spark, would soon become an inferno that would reshape my understanding of the Bratheres people, and the legacy we carried. This is our story

1. THE CAW OF THE RAVEN
The birth of Europe
Dean Amory

3. The Bratheres
The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows on the faces huddled around it. Ghey, a
young Bhrateres with eyes as sharp as flint, adjusted a log on the pyre. The scent of
woodsmoke mingled with roasting boar, a comforting aroma that filled their nightly
gathering place.
"Grandfather," Ghey began,
his voice barely a murmur
over the crackling flames, "tell
us again of the great
migration, of how the
Bhrateres came to conquer
this land."
A murmur of agreement
rippled through the circle.
Elder Bortei, his face etched
with the stories of a hundred
winters, chuckled. "Ah, Ghey,
always hungry for tales. Very
well, gather close, and I will
weave you a tapestry of our
ancestors’ triumph."
Bortei closed his eyes, his
voice taking on a rhythmic
cadence. "Long ago, before
the first snows painted the
mountains white, our people
lived in the land of Yam. We
were the Bhrateres, the ones who call each other brother, strong and united. Our lives
revolved around the herds of cattle that grazed the endless steppes. But with each
passing season, the land grew weary, the grasses thin."
He gestured with a gnarled hand. "Our wise ones, the Hgneres, the men who knew
the secrets of the stars, looked to the rising sun. They saw a land, vast and fertile,
stretching garba, westward, beyond the great water. A land ripe for the taking."
"We rode forth," Bortei continued, his voice rising, "a wave of humanity. Many walked
beside us, while our wagons, pulled by sturdy oxen, carried all we possessed."

4. "We were the people of the steppes," he clarified. "Our arrows, swift and deadly,
helped us hunt and defend ourselves during our travels, and our wagons were drawn
by powerful aurochs, the wild ancestors of cattle. We traversed mighty rivers,
ascended snow-capped mountains, and penetrated dense forests. We left offerings
and treated the spirits of the lands we crossed with respect.
However, not all our people followed the path westward. A great many remained on
the vast steppes. Some followed an other path, eastward across the mountains. Their
lives remained unchanged for generations. They continued to hunt swift prey and
gather the fruits of the wild, their skills honed by centuries of life on the open plains.
Time would weave its changes, and these eastern kin would one day be known by
different names. Though separated by distance, our fates remained intertwined. The
challenges of survival, the ever-shifting winds of fortune, even brought us face to face
from time to time, mostly as enemies."
Ghey, captivated, leaned closer. "Grandfather, did we encounter any resistance to our
arrival?"
A steely glint flickered in Bortei’s aged eyes. "There were those who sought to defend
their homes. The Mennern, short and dark-haired dwellers of the caves, and the
Farmers of the plains, also much smaller than us in stature, fought with the tenacity
of badgers. Yet, they were defeated. Most were killed, others scattered and divided or
enslaved. Many of their women were taken by us. We, the Bhrateres, were bound by
blood and a shared purpose. We fought as a unit, our horsemen a storm of hooves
and stabbing spears."
Bortei’s voice softened. "But there were also others, who welcomed us. The Stallos,
forest dwellers with blue-painted faces, offered us hospitality. They intermarried with
us, their blood strengthening the Bratheres lineage."
"Years turned into generations," Bortei concluded, his voice dropping to a low ember.
"We spread like wildfire, our language, our customs, our gods taking root in the earth.
This land, Ghey, is ours because we earned it, with our courage, our unity, and our
unwavering Bhrateres spirit."
Silence descended upon the circle as Bortei finished his tale. Ghey stared into the
flames, picturing the Bhrateres on their epic journey. He looked at the faces around
him, strong and determined, and a spark of pride ignited within him. He was a son of
the Bhrateres, a descendant of conquerors, and the spirit of his ancestors pulsed strong
in his veins.

5. The next morning, Ghey woke with a restlessness that wouldn’t settle. Bortei’s tale
echoed in his mind, not just of conquest, but of the vastness of the land they now
called home. He yearned to see beyond the familiar rolling hills surrounding their
encampment.
"Helo, Elder Sister Anya!" He found his sister by the stream, washing hides. Anya, her
dark hair pulled back in a braid, was known for her sharp wit and adventurous spirit.
"Ghey," she greeted, her voice laced
with amusement, "what troubles a
young Bhrateres on such a glorious
day?"
Ghey hesitated, then blurted,
"Grandfather’s stories... they make
me restless. I want to see what lies
beyond our lands. Is there anything
left to conquer?"
Anya’s smile faded slightly. "There will
always be challenges, brother. New
lands to explore, new people to meet,
perhaps even trade with. But
remember, conquest isn’t always the
answer."
"But what if they challenge our
dominance?" Ghey countered, a
flicker of the warrior spirit stirring
within him.
Anya placed a hand on his shoulder, her gaze serious. "Who are you looking to fight,
Ghey?" she asked. "Are you seeking enemies among strangers and foreigners simply
to justify conflict? Strength isn’t just about wielding a spear, Ghey. Sometimes, the
greatest victories are won through diplomacy and trade. Remember, the Stallos
welcomed us. We learned from them, shared our knowledge in return, and built
alliances that strengthened our people."
Ghey pondered his sister’s words. The image of the blue-painted Stallos offering food
and shelter replayed in his mind. Perhaps there was another way, a way that honored

6. the Bhrateres spirit of unity but also embraced the unknown with open eyes.
Later that day, Ghey approached Bortei, his mind made up. "Grandfather," he declared,
"I want to learn the language of the Stallos. I want to be a bridge between our people
and theirs, a rider who carries not just weapons, but words of peace and
understanding."
Bortei’s old face creased in a proud
smile. "A worthy goal, Ghey. A
true Bhrateres not only conquers,
but also unites."
And so, Ghey embarked on a new
kind of journey. He spent months
learning the guttural language of
the Stallos, their stories and
customs. He became a mediator, a
facilitator of trade, forging bonds
that transcended the boundaries
of language and culture.
Ghey’s tale, whispered around
campfires, became another thread
woven into the tapestry of the
Bhrateres. It was a story not just of conquest, but of the enduring human desire to
explore, to connect, and to build a future not just on the backs of conquered peoples,
but on a foundation of mutual respect and understanding.
Years passed, and Ghey’s reputation as a bridge between the Bhrateres and the Stallos
grew. He became known as Ghey the Weaver, a name that resonated not with the
clang of steel but with the intricate patterns of diplomacy.
One crisp autumn morning, a group of weary travelers arrived at the Bhrateres
encampment. They wore unfamiliar furs and spoke a language unlike any Ghey had
encountered. Fear crackled through the camp, a shadow of the old war-like instincts.
However, Ghey stepped forward, his voice calm yet firm. He recognized a flicker of
desperation in the travelers’ eyes, a plea for help. Using his knowledge gleaned from
the Stallos and years of interacting with diverse peoples, he pieced together their story.
They were the Venatores, a tribe of hunters driven from their northern lands by a
relentless, growing cold. They sought refuge and a chance to rebuild their lives.

7. The Bhrateres council, used to warriors and conquerors, was divided. Some saw the
Venatores as a threat, a potential drain on resources. Others, remembering Bortei’s
tales of the Stallos’ hospitality, were more cautious.
Ghey, seizing the moment, spoke. He recounted his own journey, the lessons learned
from the Stallos. He painted a picture of a mutually beneficial future – the Venatores,
skilled hunters, could share their knowledge of the north in exchange for the Bhrateres'
expertise in animal husbandry. Their combined strength could ensure a secure future
for both.
His words, laced with the wisdom of past experiences and the spirit of Bhrateres unity,
resonated with the council. A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. The
Bhrateres, ever practical, saw the value in Ghey’s proposal. They welcomed the
Venatores, offering them land and a chance to integrate into their society.
The Venatores, in turn, shared
their knowledge of hunting
techniques and the secrets of
surviving harsh winters. A
cultural exchange blossomed,
with stories shared around
flickering fires and new skills
learned. The Bhrateres adopted
warmer furs for the winter
months, and the Venatores
learned the benefits of herding
alongside hunting.
Ghey’s act of diplomacy not only
secured the Bhrateres’ future
but also set a precedent. The
concept of forging alliances
through understanding and
shared resources began to take
root. The Bhrateres’ expansion
continued, but it was an
expansion built on a foundation
laid by Ghey the Weaver, a
testament to the enduring
human spirit that seeks not just
dominance, but a tapestry
woven with threads of unity and respect.

8. Decades rolled by, and Ghey, now an elder himself, sat by the fire reminiscing with
Anya, her hair streaked with silver but her eyes still sparkling with adventure. The
Bhrateres had grown into a vast and diverse people, a testament to Ghey’s vision.
"Remember the Venatores, Ghey?" Anya
chuckled. "They were so different, yet
they became some of our fiercest warriors
and most skilled hunters."
Ghey smiled. "Indeed. It all started with a
leap of faith, a belief that there was
another way."
A young woman, Elara, approached, her
gaze filled with curiosity. "Grandfather
Ghey," she said, "they say you hold the
stories of the Bhrateres’ past. Tell us
about the first Bhrateres who came to this
land. Did they meet any who resisted their
dominance?"
Ghey’s smile dimmed slightly. "There were
those who fought, Elara. The original
inhabitants, some fierce and some
peaceful. We learned from both. The
fierce ones taught us the value of
unwavering defense, the peaceful ones, the power of collaboration."
Elara’s brow furrowed. "But what about the stories of those who weren’t conquered?
Did they simply disappear?"
Ghey fell silent, a flicker of sadness crossing his features. Anya nudged him gently.
"There are whispers, Elara," Ghey finally said. "Tales of people who retreated further
west, beyond the great water. They say they carry a different memory of the Bhrateres
arrival, a memory of displacement."
Elara’s eyes widened. "A different perspective? A different story waiting to be heard?"
A disquieting memory flickered at the edges of Ghey’s vision. It was a tale not often
spoken of, a discordant note in the grand narrative of the Bratheres. Images swirled:
smoke rising from burning settlements, faces contorted in fear, the sound of flint and
the glint of bronze under a merciless sun. Was this truly how it had been? The hgneres
still debated the Batheres arrival. Some spoke of a conquering force, displacing those
who stood in their way, taking spoils and captives. Others argued for a more complex
picture, one of cultural exchange and gradual integration.

9. Ghey wrestled with the unsettling truth that flickered within him. Perhaps the stories
whispered by the elders held a grain of truth. The skewed ratio of men to women in
the migrating Bratheres lent credence to the idea of conflict. For every ten Batheres
men, there seemed to have been only one woman. Did this imbalance speak of a
desperate exodus, or a conquering force leaving destruction in its wake? The answer
remained shrouded in the mists of time.
A spark ignited in Ghey’s aged eyes. "Perhaps, Elara. Perhaps. Maybe one day, a
Bhrateres will journey west, not to conquer, but to understand. To listen to the stories
whispered across the waves, and weave them into the grand tapestry of our people."
The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows on the faces gathered around it. In Elara’s
eyes, Ghey saw a reflection of his own youthful yearning for the unknown. The story
of the Bhrateres wasn’t over. It was a living tapestry, ever growing, waiting for the
next thread to be woven – a thread of reconciliation, of understanding, and a bridge
built not on conquest, but on the shared humanity that transcended all borders.
Elara, fueled by Ghey’s tales and the
weight of untold stories, spent years
honing her skills as a diplomat and
scholar. Unlike her ancestors who rode
into battle, Elara rode the winds of
knowledge, learning the languages of
the Bhrateres’ neighbors and piecing
together the fragmented narratives of
the past.
One crisp spring morning, Elara stood
before the Bhrateres council, a map
etched on animal skin spread before
them. It depicted not just the lands they
dominated, but the vast unknown
expanse to the west, a land whispered
to be the refuge of those displaced by
the Bhrateres’ ancestors.
"Grandfather Ghey," Elara began, her
voice steady, "You spoke of stories
waiting to be heard. I believe it is time for a Bhrateres to journey west, not with
weapons, but with open ears and hearts."
The council chamber buzzed with murmurs. Some elders, wary of stirring old conflicts,
voiced their opposition. Others, inspired by Ghey's legacy and the potential for a more
complete understanding of their history, supported Elara.

10. Finally, a weathered warrior named
Bor spoke. "Elara speaks of
courage, not just the courage of the
battlefield, but the courage to face
the past and mend what was
broken. Let her go, with a small
escort of warriors for protection,
not conquest."
A wave of agreement rippled
through the hall. Elara, her heart
pounding with a mixture of
excitement and trepidation, bowed
deeply. "Thank you," she said, her
voice filled with gratitude. "I will not
fail you."
Weeks of preparation followed.
Elara selected a small group of
Bhrateres known for their
diplomacy and cultural sensitivity.
They packed gifts – finely crafted
tools, vibrant woven tapestries, and
seeds from the fertile Bhrateres lands – gestures of peace and a desire for connection.
The journey was long and arduous. They crossed vast plains, navigated treacherous
mountain passes, and braved the ever-changing moods of the great water. Finally,
after months of travel, they reached the western shores, a land teeming with unfamiliar
flora and fauna.
With a deep breath, Elara led her party forward, not as conquerors, but as guests
seeking an audience. The people they encountered, a diverse collection of tribes with
customs and languages distinct from anything they knew, were initially wary. Yet,
Elara’s unwavering respect and the Bhrateres’ gifts eventually softened their resolve.
Stories were exchanged around crackling fires, tales of displacement and hardship
woven alongside narratives of resilience and adaptation. Elara learned of a rich cultural
tapestry that existed before the Bhrateres’ arrival, a tapestry forever altered but not
erased.
Weeks turned into months as Elara and her companions documented these stories,
forging bonds of understanding and respect. They returned to the Bhrateres not with
spoils of war, but with a wealth of knowledge – a new chapter in the Bhrateres’ saga,
not of conquest, but of reconciliation and the power of listening.

11. Elara’s journey became a turning point. The Bhrateres, forever marked by their warrior
past, began to embrace a more nuanced understanding of their history. Cultural
exchanges flourished, and whispers of future collaborations, built on mutual respect
and shared knowledge, danced on the wind. The tapestry of the Bhrateres continued
to grow, its threads now woven with stories of reconciliation, understanding, and the
enduring human spirit’s yearning for connection, not just dominance.
Elara’s groundbreaking journey west sparked a wave of change within the Bhrateres
society. A new council position was established: The Keeper of Whispers. This role,
entrusted to Elara, involved not just collecting stories from the west but fostering
cultural exchange throughout the Bhrateres lands.
Years passed, and under Elara’s guidance, the Bhrateres reputation as fair and
respectful diplomats grew. Embassies were established in neighboring lands, fostering
trade partnerships and alliances. Bhrateres artisans learned to incorporate western
design elements into their crafts, and western musical instruments like the haunting
melodies of the bone flute found their way into Bhrateres celebrations.
One day, a group of weathered travelers arrived at the Bhrateres capital, their clothes
bearing the unmistakable mark of the Venatores tribe from the north. They spoke of a
growing darkness – a relentless winter unlike any they’d seen before, threatening their
very existence. The tales mirrored whispers Elara had heard from the west, stories of
a great imbalance spreading across the land.
Memories of Ghey’s words about the "growing cold" driving the Venatores south
resurfaced. Elara, now a respected stateswoman, addressed the council with her old
grandfather Ghey sitting proudly by her side. "We cannot ignore the pleas of those in
need," she declared. "Our ancestors may have had a different relationship with these
lands, but now, we are all connected by a shared fate."
The council, remembering the past and the value of alliances, agreed. A contingent of
Bhrateres warriors, skilled in harsh winter survival, was dispatched north alongside
Venatore guides. They carried not just weapons but knowledge – techniques for
building sturdier shelters, preserving food during harsh winters, and utilizing
geothermal vents for warmth.
The combined force, a testament to the Bhrateres’ evolution, journeyed north, not to
conquer but to collaborate. Their efforts, chronicled in stories passed down through
generations, became a symbol of the Bhrateres’ commitment to a future built on
understanding and shared prosperity.
The tapestry of the Bhrateres continued to grow, its vibrant threads now woven with
stories of diplomacy, cultural exchange, and a willingness to confront challenges not
through dominance but through collaboration. The once-feared warriors of the steppe
had become a beacon of unity, forever marked by their past but forever evolving
towards a future where the "Bhrateres spirit" meant not just strength but a deep
respect for the interconnectedness of all living things.

12. Back at home, Ghey was proud of the progress made, but remained cautious. He
knew all too well the secret tales whispered by the elders weren’t grand epics of unity.
They were nightmares etched in blood and bone. Ghey shivered, the firelight unable
to pierce the icy grip of memory. The Bratheres hadn’t been exactly liberators when
they had arrived in these lands. They had been a storm, a tide of desperation as much
as destruction and domination.
Their land, once fertile, had
choked on dust. Water had
grown scarce, prey had
vanished, and whispers of
greener pastures had echoed
across the steppes. Hunger
gnawed at their bellies, a
constant reminder of their
dwindling options. So, they
became a whirlwind of leather
and bronze, their gaze fixed
on the horizon – a horizon that
held the promise of survival,
even if it meant taking it from
others.
The Mennern, dwellers of
caves carved into the
mountainsides, were the first
to face the Bratheres
onslaught. Short, wiry, and
fiercely protective of their
homes, they fought with the
tenacity of cornered wolves. But their flint knives were no match for the bronze swords
of the Bratheres. The caves ran red, the screams of the dying echoing long after the
last defender fell.
The Farmers of the plains were next. Their fields of barley and flax stretched as far as
the eye could see, a testament to generations of peaceful toil. But peace is a luxury
war doesn’t afford. The Bratheres swept through them like a locust swarm, leaving
behind smoldering ruins and fields trampled by hooves. Men were slaughtered, women
taken as spoils, children left orphaned and alone.
The Bratheres didn’t discriminate. Every tribe, every settlement, faced the same brutal
choice – submit or be crushed. The Stallos, the painted people of the forest, weren’t
spared. Their pleas for peace were drowned out by the clash of bronze and the roar
of the Bratheres war chant. Yet, amidst the carnage, a spark had flickered when a
young Stallos woman, her body adorned with woad, had surrendered not herself, but

13. her knowledge. She showed the Bratheres the secrets of the forest, the hidden paths,
the medicinal plants. In turn, they shared their skills of horsemanship and
metalworking. It was a begrudging alliance, born from desperation on both sides.
The Bratheres juggernaut rolled on, leaving a trail of blood and tears in its wake.
Generations passed, the Bratheres evolving from conquerors to rulers, their nomadic
ways replaced by a thirst for power and control. But the memory of that desperate
exodus, the fear in the eyes of those they conquered, never truly faded.
Ghey, staring into the fire, saw not
just the cruelty, but also the
resilience of those who endured. The
Mennern, though broken, lived on in
the mountains, their spirit unbowed.
The Farmers, displaced and grieving,
clung to the land, their whispers of
defiance carried on the wind. Even
among the Bratheres, a flicker of
doubt began to stir. Was this truly
the future they had envisioned? Was
endless conquest the only path to
survival?
The embers of hope, faint as they
were, refused to die. Perhaps, Ghey
thought, the future wouldn’t be a
continuation of this cycle of violence.
Perhaps, from the ashes of conquest,
a new society could rise – one built
on understanding, not domination. It
was a fragile hope, easily
extinguished by the winds of greed
and ambition. But for Ghey, it was a
spark worth holding onto, a flickering flame illuminating a path towards a brighter
dawn, even if it lay shrouded in the mists of a very distant future.
The Bratheres dominion stretched across the plains, a vast empire built on the backs
of subjugated peoples. The Mennern, forced from their caves, became skilled miners,
their knowledge of the earth exploited to fuel the Bratheres war machine. The Farmers,
their villages razed, toiled in the fields under the watchful eyes of Bratheres overseers,
their crops feeding not their own families but the Bratheres elite.
But empires, like all things, contain the seeds of their own destruction. The Bratheres,
once a unified force driven by desperation, fractured along tribal lines. Old rivalries
resurfaced, fueled by whispers of ambition and arguments over dwindling resources.

14. The fragile peace with the Stallos crumbled when a Bratheres war party, hungry for
plunder, raided a hidden forest village.
The retaliation was swift and brutal. The Stallos, masters of the woods, launched
guerilla attacks, striking at the Bratheres supply lines and disrupting their
communication. The once-invincible Bratheres cavalry foundered in the dense
undergrowth, their horses easily spooked by the unfamiliar terrain and the haunting
war cries echoing through the trees.
The conflict escalated, drawing in other subjugated peoples who saw an opportunity
to weaken their oppressors. The Mennern, remembering the slaughter in their caves,
emerged from the mountains, their knowledge of hidden paths allowing them to strike
at Bratheres settlements deep within their own territory. The Farmers, their faces
etched with the memory of lost loved ones, rose up in rebellion, their agricultural tools
repurposed as weapons.
The Bratheres empire, once a juggernaut, sputtered and faltered. The Bratheres
nobles, accustomed to a life of luxury, proved ill-equipped to handle a war fought on
multiple fronts. Ghey, haunted by the stories of the past, found himself caught in the
middle. He saw the brutality of the Bratheres mirrored in the rage of the oppressed, a
brutal cycle of violence threatening to consume them all.
Yet, amidst the chaos, Ghey witnessed acts of unexpected kindness. A Bratheres
soldier, separated from his unit, found refuge in a hidden Stallos village. The Stallos,
wary but not without compassion, offered him food and shelter. In return, the soldier,
once a terror on the battlefield, shared stories of his homeland, stories that hinted at
a longing for peace even among the Bratheres.
These small acts of defiance, these moments of unexpected humanity, fueled a flicker
of hope within Ghey. Perhaps, he thought, even in the darkest of times, the embers of
compassion wouldn’t be entirely extinguished. Perhaps, from the ashes of this war, a
new understanding could be forged, a fragile peace built not on dominance but on the
shared desire for a brighter future.
The road ahead would be long and arduous, filled with bloodshed and hardship. But
Ghey, staring into the flames, held onto that flickering hope, a testament to the
enduring human spirit, even in the face of its darkest impulses.
Ghey watched, a chilling dread settling in his gut, as the opulent curtains of the leader’s
tent parted. Boramir, the current military leader the Bratheres, emerged, his once
powerful frame hardened by years of relentless war. Gold ornaments clinked on his
armor, a stark contrast to the grim faces of the warriors flanking him.
Boramir’s eyes, like chips of cold obsidian, fell upon Ghey. There was no warmth in
them, only a steely glint that spoke of ambition and a hunger for conquest that
mirrored the stories whispered by the elders.

15. "Ghey," Boramir’s voice was a harsh rasp, "your dissent has grown tiresome. Your tales
of a fragile peace, of understanding with the conquered, weaken the resolve of our
warriors."
Ghey stood his ground, his voice steady despite the tremor in his limbs. "The empire
is crumbling, Khan. We cannot sustain endless war on all fronts."
Boramir’s lips curled into a cruel smile. "Weakness has no place in the Bratheres way.
We will crush our enemies, expand our borders, and our name will echo through the
ages!"
A surge of despair washed over Ghey. He saw reflected in Boramir the very darkness
he’d hoped to extinguish. But defiance flickered within him. "There is another way,"
he rasped. "A way of peace, of building bridges, not walls."
Boramir’s smile vanished. With a swift movement, he drew his sword, the polished
metal gleaming in the flickering firelight. "There is only one way, Ghey," he snarled.
"The way of the Bratheres. And those who oppose it will be silenced."
Before Ghey could react, a searing pain erupted in his chest. He looked down to see
the tip of Boramir’s sword protruding from his heart. Ghey’s vision swam, the once
vibrant firelight dimming to a dull ember. His hand reached out, a silent plea for the
future he envisioned. It grasped at empty air as his strength ebbed away.
Boramir watched with a cold indifference as Ghey crumpled to the ground, his life
extinguished like a snuffed candle. "Take him away," he commanded his guards, his
voice devoid of any emotion. "Let his death serve as a reminder of what happens to
those who question the Bratheres way."
The guards dragged Ghey’s lifeless body away, leaving behind a chilling silence in the
opulent tent. Boramir turned, his gaze fixed on the map sprawled across a table. His
finger traced the vast expanse of the land, a cruel smile playing on his lips. The future,
he envisioned, belonged to him, and it would be a future forged in fire and blood.
Yet, as Boramir lost himself in his dreams of conquest, a lone raven circled outside the
tent, its obsidian eyes seeming to pierce the darkness. It cawed once, a mournful cry
that carried on the wind, a somber echo against the backdrop of a world teetering on
the brink. Perhaps, in the vastness of the steppes, a single ember of Ghey’s hope still
flickered, waiting for a chance to rekindle in the hearts of those yearning for a different
future.